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the coming-home
345
No matter how many springs will make it blossom,
it is nevertheless always the gray land of poverty.
It is difficult to understand that everything has
remained quiet and the same. Why, Scylla and
Charyb-dis should have commenced to roar as in former
days. The stone giant in the Girgenti temple should
have raised himself with joined limbs. Selinunto’s
temple ought to have risen from out of its ruins.
All Sicily should have awaked.
Then, continuing from Messina down the coast,
the feeling of impatience constantly continues. The
peasants are still plowing with wooden plows, and
their horses are just as thin and jaded.
Yes, everything is the same. The sunshine falls
down over the earth as a shower of colors; the
geraniums bloom at the roadside ; the sea, a pale,
light blue, lies caressing the shore.
Wild mountains and bold peaks rise along the
coast. Far in the distance a glimpse of Etna is
caught.
Suddenly, something marvelous seems to be
taking place. There is no longer a feeling of
impatience. Instead there is rejoicing at the verdant
earth, the mountains and the sea. One is restored
to the fair earth as one of her lost possessions.
There is no time to think of anything but knolls and
stones.
Finally you come in the vicinity of the real home,
the home of your childhood. What wicked thoughts
have you not had while you have been away ? You
wished never again to see this poor home, because
you had suffered too much there. And now you
behold the old mountain city in the distance, and it
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